


a moment, a love, a dream aloud

by brookethenerd



Category: Eyewitness (US TV)
Genre: The way it should have been, anne doesnt die, everything is okay, looking at you eyewitness writers, philip is okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: au in which anne's overdose didnt kill her





	

The minute Helen tells him Philip is running from the waiting room to the ICU, checking each room, trying to find her.

Helen and Gabe are hot on his tail, calling after him, trying to get him to stop. Philip doesnt stop, he can’t. It’s his mom. She’s here, and she’s sick, and she’s dying-or, at least, she was dying. They don’t know if she’ll be okay.

Philip has been down this road before. It’s not the first time his mother has been in the hospital for things like this. But the drug this time was different, and from the way it sounds, she isnt doing so well.

They don’t let him into the hospital room for what feels like an eternity but is likely only a few hours. He sits on the linoleum, knees pulled to his chest, head ducked, and waits.

Only when the moon is high in the sky and the hallway is illuminated by dim light does a nurse come out and shake Philip out of a fitful sleep, leading him into the room.

“You need anything, just press the button.” She says. Philip nods, eyes on the woman in the hospital bed.

It isn’t the mom he knows, laying there. His mom is kind and bright, and when she smiles, it lights up the whole world. He can see pieces of her when she lifts her gaze and sees Philip, pale lips curling up.

“My boy. You’re okay.” She says, voice raspy.

As if invisible restraints have been clipped, Philip stumbles forward, dropping into the chair beside his mother’s bed. He takes her slim hand in his, tears welling in his eyes.

“What happened?” He asks. Anne presses her lips together, trying not to cry herself.

“It wasn’t me, Philip. I promise. That man came looking for you. He-“

“He’s dead. Helen-she killed him.” Philip says. Anne nods, lips parting. A tear slips down her cheek, and she leans back against the pillow.

“Is everyone alright?” She asks. She doesn’t name names, but Philip knows her well enough to realize she’s only asking about a few people.

“Helen and Gabe are okay.”

“And Lukas?”

Philip lets out a breath.

“Lukas is a few floors up.”

“He’s going to be okay.” She says.

“Are any of us gonna be okay?” Philip asks. Anne purses her lips, and carefully shifts over in the bed.

“Come lay with me, baby.” She says. Philip hesitates, but climbs up. He wraps his arms around her waist, head on her stomach. Her cool hands move to trace carefully along his skin, brushing his hair back.

“I haven’t been the one taking care of you like I should have. You’ve had to be the one taking care of me. And it isn’t fair.”

“It’s okay, mom-“

“No. It isn’t. And I promise-I promise it’s gonna change.”

Philip doesn’t reply. Not because he doesn’t believe her, but because he’s too tired to open his mouth. It feels like he’s been running and running for weeks, and he’s finally reached the finish line, and all he wants to do is sleep.

“You’re gonna live with Gabe and Helen. And I’m gonna get better, and get a nice apartment somewhere. You’re gonna go to college, and you’ll come visit all of us on weekends. And Lukas-he’s gonna be okay, too.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. It’s my super power.” She says. Philip can hear the smile in her voice.

“If you had died-“

“I didn’t die. I’m right here, with you, my love.” She murmurs. She bends down, pressing a kiss to his head.

Philip closes his eyes, and buries his face in the fabric of her hospital gown.

After a moment of silence, Anne starts to hum. It’s an old song she used to sing to him when he had nightmares. He would wander into her room or out the front door to the couch, cheeks stained with tears, and she would stop what she was doing and pull him into her lap and sing. He’d close his eyes and pretend he couldn’t smell the cigarette’s, and he’d pretend that the bags of powder and the syringes placed sporadically around weren’t weapons of destruction, but cures. Cures for his mother and all the others she sat out and got high with. And she sang until everything was better.

This time, when he opens his eyes, it’ll be different. Better.

This time, maybe, it’ll stay that way.


End file.
